Emma has said to me that we will meet her friends later, but first she promised to take me to a part of Paris I've never been before. She points on the map because I told her I've never been to the north, past the Seine (an thoughtless lie), and I say sure without looking. I should pay more attention. I should remember more because I have been north before. On the map at Montmartre I see Sacre Coeur, sacred heart. I remember.
Anyways, we still go north. I asked her to take me to a lovely park. There's a few she tells me, and she takes me. We eat lunch in the park. I'd picked up some shitty sandwich and a bottle of Orangina from a Monoprix just off the metro. It's a lovely park, truly. More ghetto than the pretty parks of the Seventh near where Lili lived, or the one down south by Marie, but lovely none the less. Lovely with graffiti and shaded walkways and stairs stepping down and abandoned building from the un-remembered 80's. There's a dried up fountain with a rusted spout, but still there's people everywhere. People on the grass eating and drinking wine, being merry. There's a family and the father is playing a small drum like they do in Venice on Sundays in the sand. He plays and sings and his wife dances with their small child. They're so happy.
I'd been so close.
Emma is a soft-spoken girl. She ironically smokes hand-rolled cigarettes, but that's not so uncommon here. It's Paris, after all. I miss this city. I coax the conversation from her sometimes, but really she loves to talk, and she's an absolute delight. On the bench while we eat, she tells me all about living in England, away for London, teaching French to little English kids. She's so young. Well no, not so, but she's young than I, and suddenly I feel old being here again in Paris. We meander south, Emma and I, guessing our way through the city. Emma's shit with directions. We stumble upon Republique. There's a half-pipe erected by the metro stop. There's young people everywhere, and graffiti and flower laid down by the old monument. A young man's writing something in French in big white letters on the ground. I ask Emma, "What's it say?"
